


Silence After The Explosion

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [2]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Adorable Spike, Bombs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explosion, Hurt Spike, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, OT4, Other, Protective Ed, Protective Greg, Protective Sam, Spike Whump, Spike is too self-sacrificing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone let a breath out on the other end of the line, and it took a minute but Spike realized it was Greg that had screamed his name—frantic and tortured, so abnormal his mind threw out the possibility in explosion’s sudden wake.<br/>“We’re coming for you, buddy,” Sam called over the comms, and Spike could tell by the sound of his voice that he was running hard—not the trained cadence of long distance, but the run of a man burning alive and sprinting for water—, “Jules, we got an ambulance on standby?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence After The Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> Another OT4 story, and I hope you enjoy! Please give feedback (comment and kudos or whatever) as I would love to see if people are enjoying my writing. Poor Spike, I just love to hurt him too much. Have a great day!

Sirens screamed around the building; the evacuation completed mere minutes before but the howling machines continued to whirl on. Sickly orange lights lit the room in violent flashes, lighting up the rubble and dust thrown into the air by the first explosion.

Spike lifted himself off the ground gingerly, wincing and biting back gasps. He’d been thrown against the wall, the bomb he’d been trying to diffuse being a decoy, by explosives hidden a few feet away. It hadn’t been bad; there was no shrapnel, no burns, but he could feel the bruising on his ribs.

Someone was shouting on the comms, several voices fading into one, but Spike could barely catch his breath let alone respond. Using the wall for support, the bomb tech worked his way over to the site of the explosion and grinned weakly. He’d gotten the first bomb, the largest one—the one that was about to blow the place sky high—, disabled. The decoy one was blown to bits by the hidden TNT, and the hallway that he’d ran into was now just a gray mess. There were no features or objects, just a path of destruction by the relatively small blast. His abdomen felt just as decimated as the concrete and cheap wallpaper.

“ _SPIKE!!_ ”

Spike snapped back to awareness, mind still muddled, and coughed the dust from his lungs before responding. His throat burned, eyes tearing up, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep until a week had passed.

“Yeah,” he winced, holding his sore ribs, “I’m fine. Bomb disabled, but there was…” he stuttered, trying to hold back a groan, grasping his ribs tighter despite the pain rocketing up his chest, “there was a decoy, and another active bomb. It went off, threw me into the wall,” he tried to move away from the wall—to go find his team, go find his lovers, get free of the dust and debris—but gasped in agony and slid down to the floor, “the building’s torn up but structure seems okay.”

Someone let a breath out on the other end of the line, and it took a minute but Spike realized it was Greg that had screamed his name—frantic and tortured, so abnormal his mind threw out the possibility in explosion’s sudden wake.

“We’re coming for you, buddy,” Sam called over the comms, and Spike could tell by the sound of his voice that he was running hard—not the trained cadence of long distance, but the run of a man burning alive and sprinting for water—, “Jules, we got an ambulance on standby?”

“Anyone else get hurt?” Spike asked, gritting his teeth and tasting copper on his tongue, and Ed jumped on the comm to quickly reassure him.

“Just you,” the sniper sighed, “building was cleared, and you were the only man down rage.”

“Good,” Spike smiled weakly but the worry left his gaze, and let his head drop against the wall. His legs were stretched out in front of him, and arms limp at his side; body lax in exhaustion. His spine felt like it had melted into his muscles and flesh, leaving him loose and vulnerable. He doubted he could walk out of here on his own—not when he was this tired and the pain wasn’t keeping him awake and was only dragging him further into the healing darkness of sleep.

“You shouldn’t have gotten hurt at all, Spike,” Greg suddenly jumped onto the comms, voice barely restrained and Spike’s mind was thrown for a loop as his brain processed the personality change from calm negotiator to angry Sergeant, “I ordered you to get out of there, and you _deliberately_ **disobeyed** me.”

“I had to get that bomb disabled, boss, or else the building would have gone down. I know my capabilities; I knew I could do this.” Spike defended, “and besides, it’s just some bruised ribs.”

There was the sound of someone hitting something solid, and some agitated growls, but Greg didn’t respond.

“Spike,” Sam yelled, and the bomb tech tried to push himself off the wall as the blonde man navigated his way into the hallway and through the debris. “Wait, don’t move. I’ll come to you, buddy, don’t worry.”

“Hey Sam,” Spike smiled, and allowed the man to pull him up and help support him. He didn’t complain about the kiss that the blonde pressed to his cheek, either. And he didn’t comment on how Sam’s body was shaking worse than his own. They slowly made their way to the exit, Sam taking most of Spike’s weight and the bomb tech trying to hold back his sounds of discomfort—Sam’s body tensed more when a whimper of anguish escaped his bloody lips.

“Greg’s mad,” Sam warned him, and as they stumbled into the light of day—Spike covered in grey dust, blood on his forehead and hands and clutching at his bruised bones—the bomb tech whole heartedly agreed.

Except, to his eyes, Greg was furious.

The man was fuming; every muscle tensed and facing the entrance like a pointing hound. When he saw Spike, the bald man quickly walked—barely keeping from running—towards them and joined himself to Spike’s other side, helping Sam keep the bomb tech upright.

“Where are you hurt?” the sergeant leaned back a bit, roaming his eyes over Spike but Sam spoke up before even Spike could.

“Bruised ribs, possible head trauma, couple of scratches on his head, but that’s about it.”

Greg didn’t look any less unpleased, but a little of the tenseness left his shoulders and his eyes weren’t as frantic.

“Let’s get him to the medic, that’s the first priority.”

“Guys, I’m right here.” Spike spoke up, but quieted when Greg and Sam shot him a glare. Even Ed was jogging over, and looked a little crestfallen when there was nowhere for him to help (pretty much carry) support Spike and instead walked along side Sam and patted the younger sniper on the shoulder before squeezing the tensed muscle and letting his gaze roam over the three men—checking for any injuries, minor and major and imagined.

“I’m never letting you out of my sight again,” Greg muttered under his breath, and reluctantly handed the bomb tech off to the paramedics, and the other two men nodded their silent agreement.

Spike, as he knew he would, was told he should just get some rest and that he’d be fine. Just some very painful bruising and some scratches, but Greg, Sam and Ed didn’t see it how he did. He’d just managed to push all three of them into overprotective mode, and they seemingly had to keep up physical contact to reassure themselves that Spike was fine—that he wasn’t buried under the rubble, unable to breath, that he wasn’t bleeding out, no one able to reach him, that he wasn’t bleary eyed and pulling in his last breath, team having failed him.

They stumbled their way through the debrief, eyes angry when Spike went over what happened with the bombs, and made their way back to their house as soon as they could get free. Sam was tasked with making sure Spike didn’t pass out in the shower, while Greg and Ed hovered nervously outside the bathroom door.

Finally, when all four of them were clean, they dragged themselves to the giant bed comprised of two king mattresses pushed together. Spike was unceremoniously pushed into the middle, and the three other men quickly wrapped themselves around his smaller form. Greg and Ed were both on their respective sides, and Sam had managed to crawl between Spike’s legs and was using his thigh as a pillow.

Quickly, sleep overtook them. Greg had one arm thrown over Spike’s stomach, hand resting on Ed’s hip, and the sniper had his fingers tangled in Sam’s hair and his other arm under Spike’s neck and his fingertips grazing Greg’s shoulder.

Spike simply basked, dead asleep, in the warmth.


End file.
